Trigger warning: the first part of this chapter contains allusions to sexual abuse.

Hermione was not sleeping properly. She hadn't been for months. If once her existence had been boring, it was now quite the opposite. She had a job she loved, she felt like every new day had the potential to allow her to learn and grow and make new experiences. She felt needed and enjoyed making use of her skills in the quest for something good. She felt stimulated and more like herself than she had for a long time.

If only she could escape the strange memories, the feeling of panic that simmered just below the surface wherever she was and whatever she was doing. The feeling of being watched, cornered. She thought she could handle it at first. It had messed with her sleep, but that was bearable for a time. But gradually, it had started to interfere with her work. Her concentration lapsed, and worse: the memories came more and more often and slowly began to diminish her newfound enthusiasm and joy.

She could tell that Ginny and Harry were worried. She had tried to explain it to them, but she could barely make it out herself. They'd suggested she go to St Mungo's and talk to someone, and Hermione knew that she should. She just couldn't bring herself to do it. She didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted it to go away, because she knew that it had the potential to break her.

Ginny had even suggested Hermione get back in touch with her "mystery man" – that perhaps this had to do with him. Hermione knew it didn't. Or if it did, it wasn't his doing. All the same, she kept thinking of Lucius Malfoy, because those thoughts were the only thing that seemed to help her hold on to any tranquillity at all.

When the anxiety crept upon her, when the horrors of panic settled in her chest and made it difficult for her to breathe, she would imagine Malfoy's brusque voice telling her to get a grip. For some reason, that helped a little. If it got really bad, she would imagine his warm hands wrap around her, holding her firmly in place. She would imagine each digit of his fingers as they pressed into her arms almost painfully. That helped a little too.

But not tonight.

She had just settled into her sofa. She generally avoided that part of her flat nowadays, but her bed was full of newly folded laundry, and she was exhausted after a particularly busy day at work and just needed to sit down for a while with a cup of tea.

But as soon as she sat down, it began. The hand that patted the cushions of the sofa. She could see herself walking forward – intensely uncomfortable without knowing why. Sitting down. Another presence. An arm sneaking around her shoulders. The knowledge that the door was locked and she was alone. With him. That was enough to make it difficult to breathe and making her heart beat frantically with fear. But usually, she would get through it when she invoked the help of the imaginary Lucius Malfoy. It would stop eventually.

But tonight, for whatever reason, the memories continued to flood her. It was as if she had unwittingly opened a door and was assaulted by every demon she had ever feared. She could feel those hands pawing at her thighs, and clumsy kisses to her cheek. She could feel herself struggling, but unable to break free, being pushed down onto the sofa, her clothes being torn and discarded. She felt his smell. The pain. Everything.

Hermione tried to put her cup back on the table, but couldn't see properly and it fell onto the carpet, sloshing hot tea everywhere. She struggled for air, for sanity, desperately trying to recall the sound of Malfoy's voice and touch. It wasn't working. Her heart sped up even further and she struggled for air, while trying to bat off invisible hands from her body.

Please, she cried internally. Please help me!

Lucius was stretched out on his bed and staring up at the ceiling when he felt the tingle. He glanced down at the charmed napkin at his side, and immediately bolted upright. He took it in his hands, staring at it. At times, he had noticed a slightly frenzied look to the images, some disconnected lines and lots of fearful eyes. But this was beyond what it had shown him before.

There were no images, only fragmented words that were impossible to make out, harsh lines everywhere, as if someone was furiously scratching the paper with her nails. As he was staring at the paper, his heart nearly stopped when suddenly one word, carved rather than written, appeared:

"LUCIUS".

In the blink of an eye, he ran through his apartment until he reached the hallway, placed his hand on the napkin and apparated to whichever place the magic directed him.

He was outside her apartment. He tried the door, but it was locked.

"Alohomora!" He hadn't expected it to work. He banged on the door. "Hermione!" he yelled. He heard a shuffle from inside. "Hermione! I'm here. Let me in!"

He listened. At first there was only silence, then there were hurried but uneven steps. As soon as he heard the lock, he pushed the door open. She stumbled, and he instantly caught her in his arms.

"What's wrong?" He looked her over. She seemed unharmed. No blood, at least. But she was pale and clammy, her eyes full of terror and unshed tears.

"Help", she whispered.

"What is it? Is it dark magic?" He searched frantically for a cause, for something to fight.

"His hands," she wheezed out. "I feel his hands on me. Everywhere. I can't get away! Please…" her voice broke.

And then he knew.

It felt like something within him which he had not known was there, broke. Hermione was desperately searching his eyes for something, and for her sake, he showed only resolve. He kicked the door shut behind him and half dragged, half carried her toward the sofa.

When she saw where he was taking her, she began to struggle, so he looked around. The bedroom door was ajar, and he took her there instead. He put her down on the bed, kneeling in front of her. Her lower lip was trembling, her eyes glossy with unshed tears, and her entire body was jerking, as if flinching away from unseen hands.

He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her firmly, and spoke to her in a low, firm voice. "You are safe, Hermione. Do you hear me?"

"Hold me harder," she pleaded.

Lucius obeyed, though careful not to hurt her. He let his hands clamp down on her arms, from her shoulders to her upper arms and down to her hands. All the while he reassured her as best he could. "Do you feel my hands? I am here. You are not alone. You are safe. I won't let anyone hurt you."

He neither knew nor cared for how long he did this. He measured his efforts not in time, but in their effect. Slowly she began to breathe slower and deeper. She stopped jerking. At first she trembled, and then she began to relax fully. The terror in her eyes was replaced by something else, and equally heartbreaking. Then came the tears. Quiet at first, and then in the form of desperate sobs. He sat next to her then, and pulled her onto his lap. Her tears soaked his shirt as she held onto him. He let her cry, stroking her head and murmuring the same assurances over and over again.

At last, he could see that she had exhausted herself.

"Sleep, Hermione. I'll watch over you. You're safe now."

Soon enough, he could feel her body become heavy with sleep. When he was assured she was deep asleep, he used his wand to levitate a pile of folded clothes onto her chest of drawers and to pull away the covers and place her on the bed. Covering her with her duvet, he then quickly used the bathroom, finding himself an unused toothbrush from a package. When he returned to her, he took off only his shirt and belt, and then laid down beside her on top of the covers. He pulled her close to him, mentally preparing for whatever the night would bring.

The night passed without incident, but Lucius slept very little. He spent most of those hours thinking about what had happened. How long had she suffered from these panic attacks alone? Why did she call for him? Would she throw him out in th emorning?

And he thought about what he had realized. The cause of her panic. The crime that had been committed against her. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Surely, there had been signs? The thought of it filled him with rage, and dread, and something else that he would rather not examine too closely at the moment.

All those months ago, he had told her that he was the same man he once was. A man that was capable of torture and murder. At this moment, he realized that was truer than he had thought. If he could only find out what monster had dared hurt her, he would gladly earn himself a death sentence if it meant he could get revenge. He was exactly the same man as he had been.

Hermione woke up at around seven in the morning. She was lying on her side in her own bed and yet, before she was even fully awake, she could tell something was different. The explanation presented itself as soon as she opened her eyes. Mirroring her own position, lying on his side facing her, was Lucius Malfoy. He held one of her hands in his, and was still asleep.

It didn't take long for her to recall what had happened, but she spent many seconds trying to figure out how she felt about him staying the night. Perhaps she should feel worried - she hadn't seen him for months, after all, and yesterday was the first time she invited him in. But that wasn't the name of the feeling she experienced. Still trying to decipher what was going on inside her, she noted he'd found himself one of her spare blankets, while she was tucked in safely under her own duvet. She hoped he hadn't been cold, but given that he was sleeping quite peacefully, he was probably fine. His near white blond hair fell around his face, and the usual stubble on his cheek was more pronounced than usual.

She could tell the moment he started to wake up. He didn't move, but there was an almost imperceptible shift. Like watching an inanimate object become filled with life and force. Like magic. Then, she felt his hand squeeze hers. She squeezed back. He opened his eyes.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked.

"A while", she confessed.

They looked into each other's eyes. He was most likely trying to discover what her feelings were and she was finally finding the right word to describe them: relief. She was relieved he had stayed, that she wasn't alone. Sure, his presence brought a ton of issues to deal with it, but right now she couldn't be bothered. For the first time in a very long time, she felt some measure of security again.

He didn't say anything, but for once, he was fairly easy to read. She saw worry. Pain. And many, many questions that needed answering.

"I kept hoping it wasn't real", she whispered, relieved to be able to put words on even the smallest part of her internal turmoil.

"It isn't, not anymore", he said. "I know it happened, and that you'll have to deal with it. But it is not real any more."

"I'm scared", she confessed.

"Of course you are. But you're safe", he said solemnly. Looking into her eyes, he seemed to make a pledge: "You know what sort of man I am. You know that if anyone tries to hurt you again, I will stop at nothing to keep you safe. I will kill them without a second's hesitation."

That was comforting and disturbing all at once. She sighed. "You know I don't want that."

"I know", he said again. "But you need to know that. I'll protect you, Hermione."

She closed her eyes, filled with gratitude and sorrow at once. She didn't want him to kill, didn't want him to be what he had been. But at the same time: she needed to hear those words.

"I guess you want some time alone", he said, attempting to let go of her hand and get up from the bed.

Immediately, she tightened her grip on his hand. "Don't go!" she begged. She knew she was being foolish and childish and that she had no right to put a claim on his time - especially not after her unconsiderate behaviour last time they saw each other. But she needed him to stay.

"Don't be absurd." He rolled his eyes in that familiar disdainful way that she'd once hated. "I won't leave unless you order me to, and even then I won't go easily. But I suspect you don't want me around when you visit the bathroom?"

Hermione blushed at the pointed look he gave her.

"I didn't think so", he said drily. "I'll prepare you a bath and then make us some breakfast while you refresh yourself."

"Thank you."

It felt odd to be the caregiver. He had never thought such things were in his nature, but given the circumstances he didn't have much of a choice. And he supposed all he had to do was to try to check off the basic human needs. Now that sleep was taken care of, he directed her to the bath tub and other necessities she might need to use in the bathroom. Next was food.

He moved into the kitchen. If he hadn't known she was muggle-born, one look around the close kitchen area would have tipped him off. There were several appliances he couldn't begin to name, much less understand the purpose of. He steered clear of any unknown machines and moved to the fridge. It was rather empty, but he found some butter, jam and eggs. And in the freezer there was some bread. He defrosted the bread with a spell, only burning it slightly. The eggs he would have to prepare in some way. Boiling them seemed less difficult than frying them – especially since he had no idea how her stove worked.

While listening after any sound from the bathroom in case she needed his help – and trying to ignore images of being obliged to lift her naked wet form out of the bath tub – he managed to find a saucepan and fill it with water. He turned to the stove and frowned. Problem remained. He sighed and put the saucepan down. He would have to boil the eggs manually, so to speak. With a sigh, he sat down with his wand pointed to the water, and prepared to be bored.

For a long time, there was only silence from the bathroom, then he heard muffled movements. She wasn't her normal brisk self, he could tell. But finally, he heard the door open and her hesitating steps approaching.

Her hair was wet and pulled up into a bun, and she wore a gray wool sweater and sweatpants. She was tugging at the sleeves in that self-conscious way he had begin to recgnize as a sign of nervousness.

"Eat", he ordered.

She sat down with a half-smile and after some hesitation put some bread with jam, and an egg on her plate. He opted for the bread alone, and a cup of coffee he conjured magically. After eating in silence for a while, Hermione looked up at him with a quizzical look. "For how long did you boil the eggs?"

"Twenty minutes. Is it not enough?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "Quite enough, yes." She held up the egg – the yellow was completely green. "Next time, you might settle for six or seven."

Lucius scowled. "Ungrateful witch," he muttered, secretly pleased that she could manage to tease him, and then added. "Call in sick today. You need the rest."

Hermione nodded. Taking orders was apparently agreeing with her today.

"I should owl Ginny as well. She might be worried, and I don't want her to knock down the doors."

"And what if she does?" he asked. "If she is half as capable as her mother, she might kill me for being here." He may not like the Weasleys, but he had a healthy dose of respect for any witch with a grudge and felt no need to expose himself to Hermione's friend's wrath.

"Is that the confidence of someone who professes to protect me?" she raised her eyebrow.

"I doubt Miss Weasley is a threat to you. Just get her to stay away." He said curtly.

"Will you stay?" she asked in a pathetic voice.

"Stop asking stupid questions and eat."